


Christmas Lists; or, Victorian Advice for Appropriate Gift-Giving In the Holiday Season

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Community: holmestice, Crack, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-28
Updated: 2012-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-30 05:46:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/328398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson wonders what gifts Holmes plans to give at Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas Lists; or, Victorian Advice for Appropriate Gift-Giving In the Holiday Season

**Author's Note:**

> The recipient asked for Granada-verse slashy/cracky/BDSM/explicit/angsty/humor fic. The Holmestice fairy sat down, thought about it, drank some of Mrs. Hudson’s elderberry wine, and managed to come up with this. If this doesn't sound like your cup of tea, this might not be the story for you.

By early December, winter had set in with dogged determination and maintained a brutal, icy grip on London. I maintained my usual rounds, and even tried to retain my habit of walking to most of my patients, but all too often the dismal weather and the discomfort it caused my old war injuries necessitated the use of a cab. I certainly did not mind the increased speed, comfort, and convenience, but my bank balance could ill afford too many such indulgences. So I walked when I could, and sometimes even when I would rather not, and even sometimes when I would have paid, gladly, had there been any hansoms available.

 

It was on such a cold, wet evening that I limped through the front door of Baker Street. I had been unable to hail a cab after my last appointment; the streets were dark and wet, and apparently every vehicle for hire in our part of London was already engaged. My coat and hat were soaked, much to Mrs. Hudson’s dismay.

 

“Good heavens, Doctor Watson, you’re wet through!” our kind landlady exclaimed with dismay. “You’ll catch your death!”

 

“Nonsense, I will be fine,” I reassured her, refusing to let my teeth chatter. “But I will feel all the better for a pot of tea, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

 

Mrs. Hudson nodded. “I’ll bring one right up, Doctor, and I’ll have a nice hot supper for you within the half-hour.”

 

Truly, Mrs. Hudson is a jewel among women. I thanked her profusely before making my way up the stairs to the rooms I shared with Holmes. As I turned the knob of the sitting-room door, it occurred to me that I had neglected to ask Mrs. Hudson if Holmes was within, or if he had gone out. When I had left after luncheon, Holmes had been in his dressing-gown, sprawled on the sofa taking in the news, half-a-dozen newspapers strewn all about him. He had barely said two words to me as I went by, which was either a very good sign – something had caught his interest – or a very bad one, one indicating the onset of one of his black moods. There was only one way to find out. I hoped for the best and opened the door.

 

The first thing that caught my attention was the generous coal-fire blazing in the hearth, a welcome sight indeed. I hastily made my way towards it, picking my path around the piles of newspaper and other detritus. Holmes was nowhere in sight, but evidence of his day’s activities littered the room. The papers. The violin, left half-in, half-out of its case, on the floor by Holmes’ chair. The lingering haze of pipe-smoke wreathing the gas-lights. The chemistry set on the table by the wall, a beaker still steaming gently, but the burner shut off.

 

It was unlike Holmes to leave an experiment before its conclusion – unless a case came up, of course – but he was not in the room, and from what I could see of his bedroom through the half-open door, he was not in there, either. “Holmes?” I called, half-expecting to hear him answer from some corner or another.

 

“He’s not here, Doctor,” Mrs. Hudson answered, coming in with the promised pot of tea. I gratefully noticed the plate of biscuits she had included on the tray. “He just stepped out, perhaps five minutes before you arrived.”

 

“Did he say where he was going? Oh, here, let me make room for that.” I hastily cleared away a spot for Mrs. Hudson to set down the tray. “These biscuits look splendid. I’m famished.”

 

“He did not, but he did indicate he would return soon. I asked him if I should set back supper and he said by no means.”

 

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.” Holmes expressing any interest in a meal, however trivial, was an excellent indication of good-humour. Mrs. Hudson knew this as well as I did, and we shared an understanding smile before she returned downstairs.

 

Left to my own devices, I collected the various sheets of newspaper strewn about the room, hoping to find enough of one individual paper to provide consistent reading material to accompany my tea and biscuits. As usual, any method Holmes might have in reading (and discarding) the various papers he took in escaped me. I had just about resigned myself to settling for the bits I’d found of the financial section from this morning’s Standard when another sheet caught my eye, one covered with ink blots, tea stains, and margins edged with notes in Holmes’ distinctive handwriting.

 

My curiosity piqued, I settled down into my own chair with that paper in hand. Moments later, I nearly laughed into my tea-cup. “250 Gift Ideas for Christmas,” the headline read. Surely _Holmes_ could not have been in serious contemplation of such an article? Perhaps it was a blind, or a critical part of a secret code used by some gang or another. That seemed far more likely than the idea of Holmes taking notes on gift ideas for the holidays.

 

And yet perhaps it was not so strange, after all. I knew my friend was not a sentimental man. Nor was he at ease with the commonplace tokens of respect, affection, and esteem as practiced in society. He loathed many of those customs with all the depths of his Bohemian soul. Yet for all that, Holmes did care deeply for those he cared for at all. I knew this better than most – perhaps better than any. Maybe he really _was_ searching for ideas as to what to get for…well, Mrs. Hudson, for example. I knew he was fond of our landlady, as I was myself.

 

I glanced through the list of gift ideas. They were grouped under sub-headings for type of relationship: For Grandfather and Grandmother, For Children Between Six and Fifteen Years of Age, and so on. And indeed, under the heading “For the Men and Women Helpers of Our Households,” I saw dots next to the following items, where Holmes had rested his pen against the paper:

  * Tickets to Some Wholesome Entertainment
  * A Music-Box or Needlepoint Box
  * New Gloves



Fine enough ideas, I supposed, but somehow they did not feel right to me. Mrs. Hudson was hardly a “woman helper of our household,” after all. She was our landlady, but she also took supremely good care of us, and tolerated all of our – mostly Holmes’, but some of my own too – faults. She was more than just a helper. Certainly she was far more than our washerwoman, in whose list Holmes had also placed a dot or small question-mark next to “Flannel Shirtwaist.”

 

A sudden yawn caught me by surprise, and I hastily took a sip of my tea even as I pondered the markings. Good heavens, Mrs. Hudson would probably turn us both out immediately if Holmes ever gave her something made of flannel. Surely he knew her better than that? I shook my head, disturbed, and turned my attention to other parts of the list. My curiosity would not be denied. Was Holmes searching this list for some idea of what to give _me_?

 

The section immediately above the one for household helpers was “For the Doctor.” With growing disquiet, I saw that Holmes had marked two items in that list:

  * Pocket Pencil
  * Books



On the one hand, these were both items that could and did hold some appeal for me. I had gone through many pocket pencils in taking notes for Holmes’ cases, and he well knew my fondness for relaxing with a good yellow-backed novel. But “For the Doctor” – how cold! Is that all I was to him, after all?

  
Then again, was there a list for what I was to him, or he to me? Could I even categorize our relationship?

 

There was no entry for “For the Roommate” or “Fellow I Share Rooms With,” I saw. Nor was there an entry for “For a Partner in Adventure” or “Fellow Investigator,” although I was not entirely sure Holmes would categorize me in quite that way. Sometimes I felt a full partner in his cases, but more often I only filled some specific, subordinate role: note-taker, sympathetic ear, gun-hand.

 

Certainly there was no entry for “For the Fellow With Whom I Regularly Engage in Mutual Acts That Bend or Break the Spirit if not the Letter of the Law.” Which we did – and as of the last few weeks, these activities included more than just ignoring the finer legal questions around circumventing locked doors, trespassing on private grounds, or forcefully dealing with overly-aggressive ruffians when solving cases.

 

Kissing Sherlock Holmes was not _technically_ illegal. Neither were the other acts we had performed with our hands and mouths. We had not engaged in actual sodomy.

 

Yet.

 

But oh! In truth, that was the only gift I wanted from Holmes this Christmas. The chance to have him, to be had by him, in that most profound of ways. Never mind that I had never actually…I was not familiar with…well. While my experience with women was quite varied – indeed, extended across many countries – my opportunities with men had been necessarily more limited. While I was certain that women remained a mystery to him, I had no idea if Holmes’ encounters with men were any broader than my own. His natural reticence had prevented me from asking any particulars of his past encounters, and he had not volunteered any intimate details – or indeed, any information at all. Certainly the deftness of his touches suggested some prior experience; but then again, Holmes _was_ the foremost investigator in London. To a man who could deduce an entire day’s events from the creases in a man’s trousers, determining where to touch, and how, for best effect, must be child’s play, regardless of how many or few prior opportunities for observation (and practice) he might have had.

 

But all that was very much beside the point. Since there was no entry for “For the Man With Whom I’d Like To Engage In Buggery” (although my mind quickly conjured a list of items for that theoretical entry: scented oils, Vasoline, certain erotic volumes of Greek and Roman verses…), I would have to look elsewhere for clues as to what Holmes might be considering as gift ideas. There were several notations around items near the left-hand lower corner, in a section entitled “For a Son, Brother, or Friend.” That was much more like it. Holmes was most definitely my friend, and I was his; he had even told me as much, long before we became physically intimate. He was my brother, too, in the brotherhood of the battlefield. And London was a battlefield at times, as much as Afghanistan had ever been.

 

So the heading seemed appropriate, but not necessarily all of the items that had marks. I could understand why Holmes might have considered “A Charm for his Watch-Chain” for me, and certainly he’d remarked my picture of Gordon and the blank spot on the wall next to it, so “A Framed Picture of a Noted Personage” fit well. But “Antique Pieces for His Room”?  Even assuming I had space anywhere in my small upstairs bedroom – which I did not – that was emphatically not my taste. “Andirons for His Den” was equally baffling. And I had to believe that the mark next to “A Good College Song-Book” was merely an errant spatter of ink.

 

I yawned again, and the newspaper print blurred before my eyes. I blinked, trying to clear my sight, and another mark caught my attention, a large dot and a clear line.

 

In the list under the caption “For the Only Girl in the World.”

 

What on earth…? Why would Holmes have marked an item in that column? I squinted, trying to focus my suddenly-heavy eyes. An ink blot marred the paper at the end of the last word:

  * A Neck Chain and Lock--



 

A chain and lock? For what? Locking whoever it was up? Dragging her around by the neck? Locket, not lock, of course it wasn’t meant to say lock, the spatter of ink simply hid the last few letters, but for what? Showing the entire world that she was his? She? She who? Holmes and a woman?! Preposterous!

 

The most bizarre mixture of jealousy and excitement roiled my soul, making me abruptly lightheaded. My eyes slid shut as I leaned back against the cushions. I couldn’t help but feel that I was overlooking something, something important. If I could only concentrate, but I was so tired…

 

I heard a faint shattering noise, but I found I lacked the energy to open my eyes to see what it might be. I would rest for a minute, just until my head stopped spinning.

 

A heavy weight settled around my throat. Cold links pressed into my skin, tight, but not too tight. Secure, solid, the only pressure on my otherwise naked skin. The neck chain claimed me, staking ownership, setting me apart from the rest of the world, reserving me for one and only one. I did not need to feel the tug against its chill metal weight to know I was being summoned.

 

Holmes knelt before me, long slender fingers affixing a heavy lock to my chain, eyes glowing with amusement and possessive pride. He stood and carefully tucked the key to the lock in the pocket of the only garment he wore, Mrs. Hudson’s flannel shirtwaist. The red flannel brought out the roses in his cheeks, and left his lower half completely nude. He was splendidly, gloriously aroused, and I felt myself stirring in response. I felt the heavy metal of the lock thump against my chest as Holmes tugged on my neck chain, commanding me silently to kneel on all fours on the floor before him. I opened my mouth, ready to receive him, but he moved behind me instead, and I realized that he would take me now as I had longed for him to do, brand me as his own as surely as his chain bound me to him. I could feel his hard heat pressing against me, rubbing slowly, teasing at penetration, followed by his long fingers, pushing, stretching, preparing. I arched into his touch even as I mentally prepared myself for the pain that would almost certainly accompany this pleasure. I did not care. I wanted it; I wanted him, as I wanted breath.

 

Later, I would claim him in return. I would shred the red flannel into strips and use them to bind Holmes to the four posts of his antique bed, watch him writhe helplessly against his bonds as I lay over him, pressed down on him, thrust into him. Tie him as I was tied, bind him as I was bound, own him as I was owned, gasping together until we lost all distinction between possessor and possessed in sheer bliss.

 

The lock pressed more heavily against my chest, weighing down my lungs. I felt a familiar hand brush against my brow.

 

“Watson.”

 

I tried to open my mouth to answer, but the weight of the lock flattened all of the air out of me. I could not speak, struggled even to breathe.

 

“Watson?”

 

The lock and chain crushed me down. The red flannel dissolved into simple redness of lack of oxygen, the inability to breathe.

 

“Watson!”

 

Commotion. Doors banging open and closed. Wood squealing as windows were forced open. A foul odour assaulting my nostrils, followed by a stinging slap against my cheek as blasts of frigid air wafted against my face. I choked and opened my eyes, panting for breath, my heart hammering in my chest. 

 

Holmes crouched before me, one hand steadying me in my chair, the other holding the bottle of smelling-salts I carried in my medical bag. All the windows of our sitting-room stood wide open, and the cold draughts scattered the newspapers across the floor. My friend was still dressed for the outdoors, his cloth cap still on his head, but his grey overcoat half-unbuttoned, as if he had been in the act of removing it. He looked at me, an expression of deepest concern on his face.

 

“My dear fellow, can you understand me?”

 

“Yes,” I stuttered, trying to gather my staggered wits. What had just happened? What had I imagined, and what had been real?  “H-holmes?”

 

“Yes, Watson, it’s me. And I owe you the deepest apologies.” His eyes darted to his chemistry table, and I automatically followed his gaze. The table was much as I had remembered it from when I’d returned to our rooms – but the gently-steaming beaker was gone, if it had ever been there in the first place. Had it?

 

“No, my dear Watson, you did not imagine it,” Holmes answered my disjointed query. “I had thought I’d neutralized the chemical reaction before I left. I realized I was missing a critical component for my researches, and I would need to begin again.” He grimaced. “I should have disposed of the remnants before I left, but I was in a hurry, and I thought it was perfectly safe…  Are you quite certain that you’re all right?”

 

“I believe so.” I fast felt myself returning to normal – all except for the uncomfortable fullness of my erection, which showed no signs of abating anytime soon, and my lingering state of both arousal and embarrassment. Embarrassment that I could imagine such things – Holmes prancing around in nothing but a woman’s flannel shirtwaist, good God! – and undeniable arousal at other parts of my drug-induced flights of fancy.

 

“Thank God,” Holmes sighed. “When I realized what I had inadvertently done, what I had exposed you to – if I had delayed my return – well.”

 

“Good Lord, Holmes. Was it really that dangerous?”

 

“The neutralized compound should not have been dangerous at all, but judging from the deeply unconscious state I found you in, and the light-headedness I experienced myself when disposing of the contents and attempting to clear the atmosphere, I have to assume so.” Holmes shook his head and frowned. “I really cannot explain what happened, in fact. Chemically, I mean. Clearly there was some kind of anaesthetic effect from the vapours. I wonder if I could reproduce the reaction, under more controlled conditions of course…”

 

Alarm shot through me, and I struggled to sit upright. “Not while I am present, thank you!” Something crunched underneath my shoe, and I realized that Mrs. Hudson’s teacup had been a casualty of the affair.

 

Holmes’ hand tightened on my shoulder. “No, Watson. I would not risk you so, not again.”

 

I reached up and placed my hand over his. “Nor would I have you risk yourself, Holmes. It was an accident - ”

 

“But think of the possible benefits, if I could determine how to reproduce the reaction!” Holmes cried. “An odourless, powerful, airborne anaesthetic! The value to medicine alone - ”

 

“Would not outweigh the side effects,” I interrupted dryly, shifting uncomfortably in my chair.

 

“What!” Holmes’ grip grew painful as his eyes darted over me. “I thought you said you were all ri…  Oh.”  His gaze riveted on my lap.  Moments later, a trace of colour showed in his cheeks.

 

“Oh,” I echoed wryly. “I am indeed all right, Holmes, but not exactly comfortable.”

 

“Oh,” Holmes said again. “I see.” He bit his lip, and then launched himself to his feet. With quick, cat-like movements that so characterized him, he strode around the sitting-room, shutting the windows and drawing the drapes before returning to my side. “Well, Watson, as a scientific observer, I am naturally interested in examining all the results of an experiment, however incidental or accidental they might be to the original intended result. However, as I have rendered our sitting-room rather less than hospitable for the moment, I suggest you retire to my room for the time being. It would be unfair of me to ask you to ascend to your own room while you are still experiencing the effects of my researches, and my room is rather better for…scientific inquiries, in any case.”

 

I hid a grin. “Oh, well, of course, Holmes. Undoubtedly you know best.” I made an effort and rose from my chair, wincing as more china crunched under my shoe. Holmes, perhaps mistaking the cause of my expression, hastily moved forwards to support me, but I waved him off. “I’m afraid Mrs. Hudson’s teacup is irreparably shattered, and I fear dinner will have to be put back after all.”

 

An answering glint of humour lightened Holmes’ expression. “Hm, yes. I shall make my apologies, and ask her to hold dinner for, say, an hour?”

 

“That should do nicely. I think by then I should have quite the appetite.”

 

“It’s a probable conclusion. I find your appetites very dependable.” Holmes gave me one of his quicksilver smiles, and then darted out of the sitting-room, calling for Mrs. Hudson at the top of his lungs.

 

I couldn’t help grinning as I made my way to Holmes’ room. Limited funds be damned; I now had several more ideas as to what I wanted to get – and give – for Christmas.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted December 2, 2011


End file.
